


roll the dice

by tjmraso



Category: Dong Bang Shin Ki, JYJ - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Modern Day Fairy Tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmraso/pseuds/tjmraso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I had a dream the other day,” he said when the end credits started rolling, “there was a beautiful guy with icy blond hair and we were riding the bus together. I was in the back and he was in the front at first, but then he smiled and came to me. There were no empty seats at first, so he just stood there. Then the old lady got off and he sat down. We rode three stops until he had to get off too and then he kissed me on the cheek and then he was gone.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	roll the dice

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to apologize for the grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. I tried my best, but seeing how English is not my native language (and yes, I choose to write in it), I hope those can be forgiven.

Two buildings down the street from Shim Changmin’s house there was a little book shop. It only sold old paperbacks, most of them donated.

The shop has never had more than three customers inside at once, but even so, it was very crampled, the shelves placed so close to each other, it was almost impossible to walk between them. The variety of choices has made Changmin go there once or twice every week, pick up a book he hasn’t read yet and dive into someone else’s imagination for a couple of hours every single day.

His best friend, Yoochun, didn’t understand the fascination Changmin’s had with that dusty old shop, as close to bankrupcy as a small business can be while still not failing completely, but he was also amazed by the fact that it still haven’t gone under.

 

It was a second Friday of the month, which meant that Changmin couln’t stay at the shop for longer than half an hour, having the mandatory meeting with Yoochun at his place. He’s been coming over there every single second Friday of every single month, to drink imported beer and make kimchi, which Yoochun couldn’t manage without Changmin’s help. He’s come to the shop to pick up War and Peace, a book he’d read at least ten times, and left on the subway a few days ago.

On the shelf in the back of the shop it stood proudly in its original language, and next to it a smaller paperback, tiny print and battered cover. Changmin opened the translated version, brought the book close to his nose and inhaled deeply. He like the way old books smelled, and this one had a few pages slightly tainted with dry orange stains and text smudged in the corner of every page. The first owner’s palms must have been sweating, and the second one probably loved eating oranges while reading one of the world’s classics.

“How much for this one?” asked Changmin when he got to the cashier’s desk. He’d already tried looking on the back, where the sticker with a price usually was, but this book didn’t have a tag on it.

The owner, a young man in a hoodie with a lovely smile and messy hair, glanced over the book. “Three thousand. If you take Anna Karenina too - I‘ll give you both for four and a half.”

Changmin shook his head. “That book should‘ve ended after she jumped under the train,” he said resentfully and fished his old wallet out from the back pocket.

The owner snickered as he gave Changmin the check. “See you next week,” he smiled and waved at Changmin’s back as he exited the shop.

 

Yoochun’s been laying on the couch all day, and when Changmin rang the doorbell, it took him almost three minutes to get to the door and open the lock. He had his hangover pajamas on and was watching Weekend at Bernies for the fifth time that day alone.

He burped loudly and grinned at Changmin’s disgusted face. “No kimchi tonight, dude, I almost puke when I as much as think about it.” He let his friend in and got back to the couch as quickly as he could, sat down and propped his legs up on the coffee table. “You brought beer, right?”

Changmin had brought beer and during the second half of the movie he knew by heart he kept staring at Yoochun, disturbed by the way he was gulping down the ridiculously expensive drinks. That was no way to treat good alcohol.

“I had a dream the other day,” he said when the end credits started rolling, “there was a beautiful guy with icy blond hair and we were riding the bus together. I was in the back and he was in the front at first, but then he smiled and came to me. There were no empty seats at first, so he just stood there. Then the old lady got off and he sat down. We rode three stops until he had to get off too and then he kissed me on the cheek and then he was gone.”

Yoochun sighed.

“You have the most boring dreams, Min-ah. Get yourself a boyfriend or at least get yourself laid, you‘re completely miserable.”

Changmin shook his head in denial.

“I‘m not miserable. I don‘t want people in my space. The place is tiny as it is, and another person there, even for an hour — I can‘t stand even thinking about it.”

Yoochun sighed again.

“Your place is bigger than mine, you just have too many books laying around. Bring them back to that shop.”

Changmin snorted. Like _that_ was a possibility.

Halfway through My Dinner with Andre Yoochun became both (still) hungover and (already) drunk, and Changmin couldn’t stand hanging out with him when the guy was in this state, so he left brusquely saying goodbye in a hurtful tone and promised to call his friend in a few days. On his way to the door he toppled over Yoochun’s shoes and slammed his head into the wall.

 

On the bus ride back home he’s fallen asleep, the smell of take out the lady next to him was carrying sneaking its way into his dream. He was only woken up by a kiss planted on his cheek, forced his eyes open but all he got was a smeared image of a man with icy blond hair getting off the bus and rushing down the street.

Changmin’d almost ran out after him but, head hurting and feeling nauseated, he figured it was just the hallucinations from the concussion he got from slamming his head into Yoochun’s wall.

He got off on the next stop, stopped by his favourite Chinese restaurant and ordered some take out for the next day. He didn’t feel like eating anything, but he also knew that skipping dinner would make him wake up, hungry, at 4am.

As he got home, he immediately put the food into the fridge and turned on his laptop. The bright screen was hurting his eyes and the music he put on for inspiration sounded a bit too loud. He managed to check his mail and answer three letters before the pain became unbearable, then took a sleeping pill, got in bed, buried himself under the covers and waited for the medicine to kick in.

 

He woke up as he predicted at 4am, stomach grumbling, still sleepy. He went into the kitchen and took one of the carton boxes filled with rice and chicken out of the fridge. He didn’t bother to heat it, scared to imagine was kind of pain the beeping sound his microwave oven made would bring onto his still hurting head.

Fifteen minutes later, almost finished eating, Changmin walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.

The man with icy blond hair was leaning on the tree, a lit cigarette between his plump lips. He looked just as he did in Changmin’s dream, and that could only mean that he was definitely dreaming again. That conclusion was why he opened the window and called for the man with icy blond hair, offering him to come in. He then walked to the door and opened the lock. The man was standing on the porch, hairdo getting messed up by the chilly wind.

He walked inside and waited in the hallway until Changmin was done locking the door, and turned around to face him. He then walked the stairs to the upper floor, and in about thirty seconds Changmin heard his bedroom door open with a creak. His next breaths came out uneven and ragged as he walked back into the kitchen and threw out the empty carton.

When he got to the bedroom, the man with icy blond hair was sitting on his bed, Changmin’s lost copy of War and Peace in his hands, open somewhere in the middle.

“It‘s my favourite book,” said the man with icy blond hair and looked up at Changmin, gaze warm and gentle.

Changmin shrugged and sat next to him.

“Mine, too.”

They stayed silent as the man with icy blond hair went through the lines, an occasional smile stretching his lips. It was fourteen minutes until Changmin opened his mouth again.

“What‘s your name?” he asked, voice shaky and hoarse.

The man with icy blond hair slammed the book closed and looked at the guy sitting next to him.

“Jaejoong,” he said quietly.

Changmin let out a breath he’s been holding.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, hands trembling.

The man with icy blond hair, Jaejoong, shook his head.

“You cannot kiss me until you love me.”

Changmin snorted and planted his lips on the man’s neck, icy blond hair getting into his mouth. He felt Jaejoong’s pulse fasten and grinned against his skin.

“Just not on the lips,” Jaejoong whispered and turned around, palms resting on Changmin’s hips, fingers trailing over his hipbones.

It was a dream, Changmin figured, he could do whatever he wanted, but if one kiss on the lips could ruin it, he was willing to accept that condition without hesitation. He stood up, pulling the man with icy blond hair, Jaejoong, up with him, smiled and pressed small kisses all over the beautiful face he’d imagined once.

Yoochun’s always said that a person can’t dream of anything or anyone he or she hadn’t seen before. There was this collective image concept, of course, but a person couldn’t imagine anything completely new and unseen. Changmin’d believed him just fine until the day he first dreamt of a man with icy blond hair riding the bus with him and kissing him on the cheek.

And if the concussion was making him hallucinate, he was fine with it. He’d make an appointment with his doctor in the morning and get checked out. But as long as he was sleeping, he didn’t care to fight the dream he’d hold dear to his heart for a long time after it ends.

He walked a circle around Jaejoong, pulling his leather jacket off, caressing all the skin he could get to.

He then touched the man’s face, gently, ran his thumb over the lips he couldn’t touch with his own. His hands fell down and pulled up the dark-grey tee-shirt Jaejoong was wearing, as Changmin dropped on his knees abruptly and soothed the smooth skin of the man’s sides.

“Is this okay?” he asked looking up at the man in front of him, fiddling with the zipper at the same time. He got a nod of permission from Jaejoong, the man with icy blond hair.

In the next thirty-three minutes there were times when every sensation of Changmin’s body tried to convince him it wasn’t a dream, that is was all real, Jaejoong’s taste on his tongue, Jaejoong’s fingers tightening his hair, Jaejoong’s ragged breaths, his quiet moans and little shivers.

Changmin had fistfuls of sheets when he was coming, Jaejoong skillfully hitting his prostate. And when he fell asleep, the man with icy blond hair in his wide and hot embrace, he didn’t care about the ruined sheets and all the sweat, and about the fact that his bed was too small even for him alone. His head still hurt and his lips were pressed to Jaejoong’s temple. Maybe Yoochun was right, Changmin thought, strangely calm and content with everything in his life, maybe he just needed to get laid. Even if it was with a man from his dreams.

 

When he woke up in a few hours, sheets sticking to his hip, Changmin was more than surprised to realize that his nose was pressing into someone’s back, icy blond hair mixing with his own. To say he freaked out is to say nothing at all.

Pushing back abruptly, Changmin rolled off the bed and fell on the floor, head still hurting. He let out a moan of pain and stared at the man in his bed as he turned around and his eyes flew open. “Hey,” he drew out in a gentle voice and smiled widely.

Changmin pinched himself thirteen times, hit the wall, scratching his knuckles, rubbed his eyes, closed and opened them again, and the man with icy blond hair was still there, now sitting up on the bed, sheets covering his body all the way up to the waist. In the light of day he was as beautiful as he looked at night.

“I really need to see a doctor,” said Changmin, stood up and rushed to the bathroom.

“Don‘t leave,” he blurted out before running out of the house, fresh out of the shower. Don’t you dare leave…

 

On the way to his doctor’s office Changmin wondered why he did that, why he asked that of a stranger who might have as well given him a fake name and was probably carrying out the tv and his laptop at that very moment.

He waited for almost three hours, anxious, emergency patients being rushed in, before the doctor finally called for him.

The exam took no longer than ten minutes. Dr Cho concluded that Changmin had a slight concussion and advised bed rest for a week or at least three days, wrote him a note to show at the publishing house since he’d have to miss a day of work at the very least, gave Changmin the bill and walked him out.

As they were saying goodbye, Changmin finally gathered enough courage to ask the question that was bothering him.

“What about hallucinations?” he muttered quietly and had to say the exact same words in a higher voice as the doctor asked him to repeat what he‘d just said. Changmin started going red all over from embarassment.

“What kind of hallucinations?” asked doctor Cho, frowning.

“Well, visual. Sound. Very real,” whispered Changmin, “I thought that maybe it‘s just the concussion.”

Doctor Cho shook his head. “Your concussion isn‘t that severe, Mr Shim, but I guess it is possible. If they don‘t stop, I‘d advise you to see a psychiatrist. There are a few I could recommend, just give me a call.”

Changmin sighed and said goodbye to doctor Cho, already set on forgetting that whole hallucination thing. He’d rather live with a man with icy blond hair, Jaejoong, he reminded himself, than admit he was even a little bit mental.

 

Jaejoong was in the kitchen when Changmin got back to the house, pots and frying pans on stove, delicious smell filling the rooms. There was flour on the counter and the fridge was full for the first time since Changmin’d moved out of his parents’ house.

“So you‘re real,” he said, sitting down on the chair. “And you cook.”

Jaejoong turned his head and smiled at him without saying a single word.

There was only one thing Changmin thought of, and for the first time in his life he acted out on it immediately, without thinking of the consequences.

He stood up adruptly, crossed the distance between them, pulled Jaejoong by the hand and kissed him right on the lips. He then leaned back, tasting all kinds of different spices on his own lips, and the next moment he was standing alone in the kitchen.

He overcooked the noodles and burned all the meat and the rice cakes.

 

Yoochun’d told him once that the way he lived his life, without grabbing any chances or new opportunities, was completely pointless, he might have as well spent the last ten years in a coma. Changmin disagreed and didn’t come over for three months. They’ve resumed that tradition without Yoochun’s apology Changmin thought he was entitled to. He had his routine and he was completely happy with the way things were going.

 

On Monday he went to work, even though the note from doctor Cho allowed him to take the whole week off, read two manuscrips, sent the authors his feedback, got off work at 6:05, visited the book shop, bought a collection of Chekov’s short stories some of which he hadn’t read, picked up some take out and went home. It was the same empty quiet little house he’s gotten used to. He read three stories, took a pill and crawled under the covers. He didn’t sleep that night.

 

On Tuesday he read a manuscript that was actually worth publishing, made a few notes, sent his feedback to the author and went home quiet happy and proud of himself. The guy who wrote the book wasn’t going to become the next big thing, but that was probably for the best. He ordered a pizza as soon as he got home, read six stories and went to bed. He dreamt of the ocean and foreigners walking on the water. There was a girl with brown hair who kept falling down and standing back up.

 

On Wednesday Changmin read an exceptionally good script that was supposed to be mailed to one of the studios. He cried at the ending and sent it to his producer uncle with a courier. He tried reading something else after that but couldn’t get through a single line, so he ended up watching his Seinfeld DVDs until it was time to go home.

 

On Thursday he tried starting his own book, wrote three words, hit backspace like a mad man and closed the document without saving. He went to the book shop and bought Mario Puzo’s Cisilian. He ordered a pizza when he got home, plugged out the phone and finished his Chekov.

 

On Friday he came over to Yoochun’s house and found him with the book shop owner, cosy on the couch. He refused to acknowledge even one of the million hints Yoochun threw his way, put on Four Weddings and a Funeral and made them help him with the kimchi. They drank a few beers each and by the time it was time to go home Changmin was more than a little tipsy. He rode the bus back home, almost falling asleep more than once.

 

He checked his mailbox for some reason, even though he’d already checked it in the morning, and there was a thin envelope with just his name written on it. He opened it while going up the stairs.

_“I only come back once.”_ the note said.

Changmin sighed and walked into his bedroom, door opening and closing with a loud creak.

The man with icy blond hair, Jaejoong, lay in his bed, covers pulled down to his waist.

Changmin sat in the armchair in front of the tiny tv-set and hid his face in his palms.

 

Yoochun didn’t believe him at first and suggested Changmin to stop smoking whatever he was smoking and check himself into rehab. He stopped with the bullshit when on the third Friday of the next month Changmin came over with Jaejoong. The book shop owner was there too, and somehow it felt like a double date.

Jaejoong’s hair grew out and he died it black, got himself a job in the mailroom of the publishing house Changmin worked at. He read everything Changmin wrote and gave a lot of harsh critisizm. Changmin got mad and slept on the couch for half a night.

They didn’t get a bigger bed, even though it had been (and still is) brought up at least once a month.

Changmin finished his first novel a year after Jaejoong came back and fought the urge to delete the document for two weeks. It got published and a reprint was ordered six months later.

 

Three years, eleven months and five days passed before Changmin kissed Jaejoong on the lips, hesitantly. He pulled back, scared of seeing his lover disappear in front of his eyes.

 

Yoochun said that Changmin’d waited for too long.

Changmin reasoned that it was nice to be sure.

Jaejoong shared an amuzed look with the book shop owner and smiled, reaching to take Changmin’s hand in his own.


End file.
